


The Magician's Daughter

by bluemoodblue



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe, Be warned!, Found Family, Gen, kind of, right from the beginning, spoilers for Asra's route, the ritual went much differently
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-07-27 20:06:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16226393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluemoodblue/pseuds/bluemoodblue
Summary: The ritual worked, and it didn't. Asra has her back, and he doesn't. His apprentice is with him again, peacefully resting in the crook of his arm. She's alive again. Restored.Reborn.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had a thought about how differently a ritual for a new body might have ended up, and here we are. Of course my first fic here is an au.

She's tiny.

It's the only thought that Asra can hold in his head.

She's so tiny.

He hasn't put her down since he picked her up, an automatic instinct the moment he saw her. Some foolish part of him thinks she'll disappear if he lets go. Or that fate will catch him not looking and take her away again. She's so much easier to take away now.

The ritual worked, and it didn't. Asra has her back, and he doesn't. His apprentice is with him again, peacefully resting in the crook of his arm. She's alive again. Restored.

Reborn.

And she's so tiny. Asra paces the shop, bouncing her gently. He misses her. The grief is still there; the relief he thought he'd feel is out of reach. It's the nature of bargains, of contracts, that neither side gets everything they want, and Asra feels the truth of that in the way he misses the soul in his arms. He sobbed after the deal was struck and he doesn't think he's stopped crying since; he can't tell anymore. She's gone. In so many ways, she's still so much ash on a distant island. His last, desperate effort didn't bring her back.

But she's here. The weight in his arms is real. The weight in his chest is real.

“You're going to be so happy, this time,” he whispers to the infant in his arms. “I'm going to make sure of it. Nothing is going to hurt you.” She sighs, softly, and he smiles. Something in his chest twists painfully. It hurts, how much he still loves her. “And I'll be here. I promise, I'll be here.”

There's too much to think about. He feels too much. Asra’s heart, what's left of it, is in chaos. The pacing isn't helping, but he knows he won't be able to sit still. Sleep is impossibly out of reach. And at the center of a storm of emotions is a foreign feeling that's not his and is. It echoes in his chest.

Quiet and content. The peace of unconcerned safety. A deep and certain trust. He feels it, but the it's not coming from him.

“Is that you?” Asra whispers. She yawns in response. He's crying, now, he can feel it, but he's laughing too. Or maybe they're sobs. It doesn't matter. “I've missed you so much. Welcome home. I have so much to show you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a small note for clarity - the name I've chosen for the apprentice in this fic is purely for this fic/au, and I might call them something else in another fic. I just find it easier to write them when I have a name to call them!

Everything is ready. Asra's pack is filled, his coat is in place, and the shop is quiet and still. The sling is secure - he pulls on it a few times to test it, and smiles down at the little face that peers up at him from the fabric.   
  
"Are you ready to go, Sahar?"   
  
Sahar doesn't answer. No surprise; she hasn't answered any of Asra's questions yet. But she seems content where she is, accepting wherever he's chosen to take her. She's always liked the market, anyway. And fresh air will be good for her.   
  
And there's no more plague. Asra takes a deep breath. Nothing is going to happen. It’s harder to open the simple wood door of the shop than it used to be, but Asra manages. He can’t hide her in the shop forever. _He_ can’t hide in the shop forever.

Outside, Vesuvia suffers.

The plague might be gone, but the reminders of it are on every street, around every corner. There aren’t many people around… for a number of reasons. Everyone passing him moves quietly. The city feels haunted, the weight of countless ghosts pressing down on him, on every person around him. Asra can imagine the ash stirring with every footstep, accusing stares from the dark windows of the temporary clinics.

The sling means Asra doesn’t need to hold Sahar, but he does anyway.

Nothing in what’s left of the market is cheap, and there’s not enough to go around even for their reduced numbers. Asra manages, and he suspects that’s what everyone in Vesuvia is doing right now - managing. Taking the overwhelming challenge of _continuing_ one step at a time.

But it’s hard. A baby needs so many things, and Asra’s pretty sure he’s only remembered half of them. He considers asking someone, anyone, for advice about caring for an infant when milk is difficult to track down, but everywhere he and Sahar go, stares and whispers follow. Asra isn’t sure if it’s because the local magician arrived home with a baby, or because the sight of a child is such a rare experience in Vesuvia now. It could be both, and neither possibility prevents his skin from crawling at the attention or his instinct to hold Sahar closer and out of sight.

Asra only has maybe half of what he needs when he sees the baker’s stand. It’s empty and dusty, but he doesn’t care - it’s refuge. He ducks inside, sits at a familiar table, and breaths. He can picture his surroundings as they used to be - thick rugs on the ground, the smell of pumpkin bread baking, soft conversation and Sahar showing him something she found while they were browsing…

His heart throbs. He holds her, and everything is different. There’s dust on the table, dirt on the rugs. The oven is cold. And it’s just Asra and Sahar and what’s left of them both.

They’re only alone for a few minutes before a voice drifts over from behind a curtain. “No bread today, I’m afraid. Might not be any bread for a while --” The baker, a large man, stops when he sees Asra sitting in the corner. There’s a long silence. Asra isn’t sure what to say. He tries to picture what he must look like at this moment, alone in an abandoned shop with a baby and no sleep in days. Something close to desperate, he imagines.

Asra prepares himself for the onslaught of questions. The baker walks closer, sits next to him, and smiles down at Sahar. He waves to her, and she gurgles in contentment. “Now that’s a sweet face. What’s this one’s name, hm?”

Asra’s voice is hoarse. “Sahar. I call her… I call her Sahar.” He looks at her instead of at the baker. Asra doesn’t know if the man already knew, but if he didn’t, Asra doesn’t want to find out by the pain on his face.

He was right not to look. The baker’s voice is soft and strained. “So she’s…”

"Gone."

Neither of them say anything for a moment, sitting together in private grief. "I wondered. You do wonder, you know, when you stop seeing people... but sometimes it's not that. I'd hoped she'd just left." He hesitates. "If I'm honest, I'd hoped she'd gone with you."

Asra closes his eyes. He doesn't want to think about it. "That's not her," he says, finally. He's known it for a long time, but now he lets himself admit what he hadn't been able to accept, before. "She never would have gone." Asra never should have asked. He already knew her answer.

The baker chuckles. "Should've known, I guess. I remember seeing her running all over this city, after something or other. Just hoped I hadn't missed my chance for goodbye."

An unlikely hope, these days. Flashes of scenery race through Asra's memory. Nothing worse than the desperation of knowing she'll die with miles and anger between them still. He's not alone in that; Vesuvia as a whole is familiar with both desperation and loss.

Sahar squirms, and Asra gently bounces her. The baker wants to ask, Asra can tell. He's probably not the only one, and there's a small measure of consolation in the knowledge that the truth is too far-fetched for anyone to guess. But the baker won't ask, and no one else will, either. They'll whisper until they're satisfied with the answer, and Sahar will have to live under whatever judgment the city passes for where she came from.

"I found her in the ashes." Asra's voice is steadier than he expected it to be. Maybe he's getting used to the weight on his chest. "The house was... mostly gone. It was luck, I guess, that I came back in time to find her. That she was there for me to find."

The baker is quiet. Asra focuses on Sahar; the man can make of the story what he will. He can decide that Asra is a fool for naming a child after someone recently dead, or overly sentimental. He can decide that Asra is lying. Asra doesn't care. He has Sahar now, and that was what he wanted so badly that he would give part of himself away in exchange. He doesn't need anyone else.

"Sounds like she needed you. Good name for her, too - she's got big shoes to fill." The man's voice sounds off, and when Asra glances over, the baker is surreptitiously rubbing something away from his eyes. "You, uh. If you two ever need anything, you let me know okay? The only way any of us are getting through this is together, you know?"

Asra thinks about the milk. He doesn't want to ask. He wants to do this on his own. He doesn't want to need any more people, people he could _lose.._.

But he can imagine, he can remember, what this place used to look like. The rugs are soft, the sunlight streams in past the beams, pumpkin bread is warm in his mouth, and Sahar is sitting next to him. And if she could speak, if she was the way she used to be, she would tell him stories about the people she knew.

He never met them, not in the way Sahar knew them. They were important to her, and she was important to them. He knows the advice she'd give him now if he could ask her. She'd given the same advice when she stayed, and he should have seen it then.

"If you have any extra milk, I'd appreciate it. It's been a little hard to come by, with... everything."

It's all Asra has to say. Immediately the baker has questions, about Sahar and about Asra, about how much sleep they're getting and how much she's eating and if Asra thinks he could use an old cradle because there's one in the back from when the baker's son was a child. He asks so many questions about Sahar's health and habits that Asra holds her closer on instinct, nervous about all of the things he doesn't know about raising her.

And the baker, who must have seen Asra's growing panic, smiles at him in understanding. "You'll be fine. You'll be sure that you're doing everything wrong until suddenly everything turns out right. I want to see you two back here, alright? When we get those ovens fired up, I want you first in line."

It won't be the same, Asra thinks. None of it will. Nothing will, not again, because the image in his mind can't exist anymore. But it could be almost, if he lets it. A new kind of good. "I'll hold you to that." And, as if declaring her assent, Sahar waves a tiny arm.

The sound of the baker's laughter follows them home.


End file.
